


a family affair

by reddy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Divorce, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Infidelity, Jon is not entirely a good guy, Past Rape/Non-con, bad marriage, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-20 16:29:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13150548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddy/pseuds/reddy
Summary: When Sansa moves in with her married brother, unexplored tensions and desires rise to the surface.





	a family affair

**Author's Note:**

> I suspect this is the holidays affecting me in strange ways, but this just came out of me without explanation. I'm not sure if it'll be everyone's cup of tea, but it's something I'd like to explore.

“We cannot tear out a single page of our life, but we can throw the whole book in the fire.”  - George Sand

***

 

“I know she’s your sister, I really understand that, believe me.”

Jon felt that Dany’s tone was sympathetic, but for all the wrong reasons. She was thinking of her own long deceased sibling, Viserys. But Sansa was very much alive. And she needed his help.

“We’re trying to have a baby,” Dany reminded him in the same wheedling voice. “And I can’t see how…I think it would be uncomfortable for all of us.”

Jon dragged his fingers through his mess of hair. He had forgotten to comb it this morning, and it was starting to tangle.

“We can still do that. We have all the time in the world. She’s my _sister_.”

 _Half-sister_ , Dany thought and quickly ushered the thought away. She chewed on her lip forcefully. She was staring at his hair with obvious criticism in her eyes. “You’ve already made up your mind about this, haven’t you?”

Jon looked askance. He wanted to deny it, but for him, it was already settled.

Sansa was coming to stay.

 

 

“I’m so sorry. I feel so bad for putting you out like this…” she trailed off, her suitcase hitting her knees.

Jon maneuvered the heavy thing from her with a pained smile. “You’re _not_ putting us out.”

Sansa stood in the foyer with her hands clasped in front of her, fighting the urge to start peeling the skin of her thumb. She had been apologizing all the way from the bus station. Her throat was almost raw with it, but she felt _awful_.

“I swear I wouldn’t have called you if…”

Jon shook his head emphatically. “I’m really, really glad you called me.”

He started carrying her suitcase up the stairs. Sansa followed him obediently, staring at the furniture and pictures with an absent sort of curiosity. This was her first time in Jon’s house.

“Dany’s at work, but she’ll be back in time for dinner and we can all have a chat,” he was saying as he led her towards her bedroom.

“Shouldn’t you be at work too?”

“Freelancing these days,” he replied with a casual exhale, as if the topic was not very relevant to him right now.

“Oh yes, you told me. Sorry, I forgot.” He’d mentioned in one of his infrequent emails that he’d taken a sabbatical from the _Night’s Watch_ and was writing for various sources online. But she’d been knee-deep in her own divorce by that point and was ignoring any news from her family.

“Don’t keep apologizing, please,” Jon insisted, opening the door to a lovely room that was covered in delicate eggshell wallpaper. There was an iron-wrought bed next to the window and on it, a fluffy blue comforter depicting kittens sleeping in saucers and doves carrying ribbons in their beaks. Sansa smiled at that. Jon must’ve picked this out for her. He remembered her as a girly girl. She was suddenly so touched by the gesture that she had to look away.

“Are you all right?” he asked urgently, and she could tell he was a little uncomfortable.

“I’m fine,” she said, blinking fast. “This is wonderful, thank you.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Oh, it’s everything,” she muttered, staring down at her shoes. 

Jon dropped her luggage in a corner and stood awkwardly in front of her. They hadn’t seen each other since his wedding, which was four years ago. Before that, they’d never had a proper relationship. They were family in the most abstract of ways. But when life served them a bad turn, the Starks knew they could count on each other.

He raised his hand mechanically and stroked her shoulder, pulling her towards him. He opened his body to her. 

The hug was strange and a little cold. Sansa rested her chin gingerly on his shoulder and Jon breathed loudly against her hair. The color was just as red as he remembered.

They were both so unused to contact that they parted from each other pretty quickly.

Jon sank his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Um.”

Sansa tucked a few strands of hair away. “Thank you. I guess I should unpack.”

“Right, _right_. Of course. I’ll let you rest. Are you hungry?”

“I had some breakfast, thanks.”

“Okay then.”

Jon felt that he was supposed to say something more meaningful, to coax more out of her. But he didn’t want to pry. If she wanted to talk about it, he’d be more than willing to listen. He was not one for sharing and talking about feelings, but he was a good listener. He secretly wanted her to be okay, he wanted her to not need consoling and comforting because he was so _shit_ at it. And more than that, he was not equipped to deal with her in this state. She was not the vibrant, confident, ebullient young woman from his youth. _That_ Sansa Stark had smiled constantly. She'd been universally liked and admired, and she'd had little time for him. 

 _This_ Sansa Stark was pale and haunted and her smiles were like tiny shards.

“Bathroom’s at the end of the hall,” he said, nodding his head as if this was all he meant to convey.

Sansa sat on the edge of the bed and clenched her fingers in her lap.

Jon felt as if a stone was lodged in his throat. He left quickly, shutting the door behind him.

 

 

He couldn’t get much writing done for the rest of the day. He stared at his laptop screen ineffectually, reading long Twitter threads about the political climate. All that managed to do was give him mild anxiety. He couldn’t focus properly knowing his sister was upstairs, possibly crying.

Of course, he wasn’t man enough to go check. He loathed the idea of listening behind doors. She deserved her privacy. Still, he worried he hadn’t done enough to welcome her.

Perhaps dinner would fare better. With Dany home, the atmosphere might be livened up. His wife had a knack for entertaining guests. Sansa was no regular guest, but he remembered she liked Dany fine. The two had never spent any meaningful time together, but they’d smiled and gotten along at his wedding. Sansa had been married to Harry by then and the asshole had refused to accompany her, claiming he had work to do. At one point in the festivities, he saw his sister standing on the terrace, with the phone glued to her ear, quietly weeping.

He tried not to think about that. Perhaps Dany could also help Sansa in that direction: get her talking about her own marriage. Get her to open up. 

With that thought in mind, he pushed his laptop aside and went into the kitchen to start on dinner. He loved cooking. It cleared his head and gave him purpose. It kept his hands busy. It made him feel like home, though _home_ was not altogether a clear category. He just got a feeling of belonging whenever he started chopping green peppers. Maybe it was silly, he wasn’t sure. Dany enjoyed his cooking, though she often made little jibes about his “OCD” behavior in the kitchen.  He was slightly anal about where he kept his pots and pans, which way the knife blades were supposed to hang and the overall geometry of the table setting. Dany used to find it endearing when they first started living together, but four years later her jibes were getting more sarcastic.

Jon heaved a sigh. All this children talk had started a few months ago. They’d both felt they had to do _something_. Their marriage was not in any imminent danger as far as he could tell, but it was becoming an increasingly difficult thing to balance. They sniped at each other more often, got bored with each other despite their best efforts. Dany turned to him in bed one evening and mumbled, “It shouldn’t have to be this hard. We love each other.”

And she was right. Marriage was no walk in the park, but it was meant to be shared and it was meant to be _rewarding_. They were trying to make it rewarding again. They both wanted children, so this seemed like the next logical step.

Then his sister called him out of the blue. She _never_ called; she always emailed him a few brief lines without expecting a reply. It freaked him out when he heard her slightly weepy voice on the other end.

“ _Sansa_?”

He’d been Dany’s “arm candy” that evening, as she fondly referred to him. He’d attended the King’s Landing Gala with her as any doting husband would, but everyone knew _she_ was the star there. He got out of the way when the press wanted more pictures of her.

It had happened during the charity bid. Dany had called to him that he couldn’t just _leave_ the table. They were in the _middle_ of something. He’d excused himself with a wince and run into the lobby.

“Sansa, are you all right?” he demanded, out of breath.

“No. No, I’m not,” she replied brokenly.

And that was that. Dany had understood why he’d taken the call, though she didn’t see it as an emergency. Sansa was twenty-four, after all. She was an adult.

Perhaps this attitude would do his sister well. He had a habit of treating her like a child, since she was younger than him. But Dany would take her under her wing and really shape her up, make her ready for life again.

Jon pressed his knuckles against the cutting board. Deep down, he knew it wouldn’t be that simple.

 

 

Dany dumped her keys on the ornamental table and swept the hallway in one quick glance. The house already felt different with a third person in it.

“Heya, I’m home.”

Jon popped out of the kitchen.

“Hi, how was your day?”

“ _Exhausting_. Do I smell anchovies?”

Jon grinned. “Making something special.” Then his face closed-off for a moment and he said in a low whisper, “She’s upstairs, resting.”

“Does she have everything she needs?” Dany asked, raising her eyes towards the ceiling. She felt as if they were talking about a particularly sensitive child they had adopted. 

“Um, was hoping you could ask her, actually. I don’t think she’d tell _me_.”

“She’s _your_ sister.”

Jon rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah, but we were never close like that. I think she needs someone to talk to.”

Dany sauntered towards the kitchen, rubbing at her temples emphatically. The last thing she needed in her life was a troubled young girl. She’d heard all about Sansa’s unsuccessful marriage. She’d not even turned twenty-five, but she’d been through a nasty divorce already. Someone should have stopped her. With Catelyn Stark dead, she supposed very few could have. Dany knew how vital a mother was in one’s life, but she wasn’t ready to mother Sansa Stark. Did that make her a bad person? She heaved a sigh.

“I know this isn’t ideal,” Jon said, kissing her cheek softly, “but we’ll make it work.”

 _Oh, sure_ , Dany thought darkly, though she smiled gamely at him. Jon loved this tired-old phrase: we’ll make it work. He abused it weekly. He’d used it so often it had started losing meaning.

 

 

Sansa climbed down the stairs, trying her best not to look down. For some unfathomable reason, she was getting a terrible sense of vertigo, like the floor was spinning. She held onto the banister.

She felt so stupid and ineffectual and helpless. Why had she accepted Jon’s offer? Why had she burdened him like this? Not for the first time that day, she thought about picking up and leaving without saying goodbye. It would be cruel, perhaps, but it would spare him the family theatrics.

She’d heard Dany come in earlier. They had no idea she’d been standing in the corridor, eavesdropping. She heard them talking about her, about how Dany was supposed to try and get her to open up. The thought made her ache with regret. She shouldn’t have come here, but she had nowhere else to go. The rest of the Starks were either dead or living in seclusion. 

Her life was spiraling out of control in a way that felt oddly familiar. It was like a twisted sense of déjà vu, like she’d already been here before. Maybe she was doomed to fuck up eternally, even though she was barely in her twenties. 

She pictured herself at thirty-four, a decade later, in the same place, on this flight of stairs, in Jon’s house. She cringed and started climbing down faster.

 

 

Dany was the first one to notice her. That famously wry Targaryen smile greeted her in the doorway.

“Sansa, darling, how are you?”

They advanced towards each other, like two ships that were inevitably going to collide. Dany pressed a quick peck to Sansa’s papery skin. Sansa inhaled the spicy perfume on Dany’s throat. She felt dizzy for a moment, but she managed words.

“I’m okay, thank you so much for having me. I hope it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all. The more the merrier. This house was getting kind of lonely,” Dany said, flashing her white teeth.

Sansa knew she was overcompensating to make her feel better, and she appreciated the gesture.

Her brother was watching them from the corner of his eye and she could tell he was anxious for this to go well.

Sansa cleared her throat. “Your house is lovely.”

“Why, thank you. We don’t hear that often. Please, have a seat.”

Sansa felt she was sitting down for an interview and her application was being reviewed for queries, but that was only the Daenerys Targaryen effect. As a reputable PR agent, Dany was used to handling celebrities and politicians and she had perfected a strategy of coping with both the difficult and the malleable. She was an excellent negotiator. 

“Actually, I’d like to help set up dinner?” Sansa asked, desperate to make herself useful.

Dany gave a short, tinkling laugh. “You’ll have to go through Jon for that. He is _very_ particular about table arrangements.”

Jon’s shoulders tightened slightly as he grinned at his wife. “Now, now. Don’t give away all our secrets.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s no secret by now.”

Sansa looked down at the tiled floor and started counting the squares. She felt oddly embarrassed to witness their marital banter.

“Would you like white or red?” Dany asked her, startling her from her thoughts. She was by the fridge, holding two bottles in her hand.

“I’m fine with water, you don’t have to…”

“Come now, let’s live a little. You’re our guest,” Dany insisted, waving the bottles aggressively.

“White then, thank you.”

“Ah, like brother like sister,” Dany remarked with a smile. “I prefer red myself.”

Jon shut the oven with a little more force than necessary and wiped his hands on a towel. “I’m fine with whatever.”

By the time they moved into the small dining area next to the living room, Sansa was feeling lightheaded. She’d taken a good gulp from her glass. The wine went straight to her head.

Jon and Dany were still bickering fondly about table settings. She tuned them out momentarily and stared at the tasteful décor around them, the framed paintings, the ornamental urn in the corner, the shelves stacked with elegant bags of potpourri and little bowls filled with colored stones. There was nothing _Jon_ about this interior design, but then again, she knew little of her brother.

“What are we having tonight?” Dany asked, picking up her glass.

“Pan-seared lamb chops with toasted bread crumb salsa,” he announced with a ridiculous flourish, winking at his wife.

Sansa wondered if they were putting on this show for her benefit, or if they really did talk like this every day. 

“Can I help with anything?” she asked again, scratching at her arm.

“You just sit there and enjoy the meal,” Dany said, checking her phone quickly, typing a short text. “There’s no point arguing with Jon about the kitchen.”

"Ahem," her husband interrupted her. "I thought work was done for the day."

"Sorry, darling, just sending a quick email," Dany mumbled, keeping her eyes down. 

Jon made a small face, but didn't pursue the matter. He bustled in and out of the kitchen, carrying dishes and wooden boards and refusing to be helped.

Dany stood up and walked into the living room quickly. Sansa could hear her fiddling with a record player. Her father had owned a record player. She recognized the scratch of the needle. In no time, _Jefferson Airplane_  was pouring into the dining area.

Jon bobbed his head to the music awkwardly as he set the lamb chops on the wooden board. In his rush, one slab of meat almost fell on the immaculate tablecloth, but Sansa saved it in the nick of time. She reached out and put it back on the board with nimble fingers. Her thumb had turned an angry pink. She realized, belatedly, that she had scalded herself. She quickly put her thumb in her mouth.

“Oh God, I should’ve warned you they’re really hot,” he said with a tinge of panic in his voice.

Sansa shook her head with a smile. “It’s fine, really. Tastes good.” And she popped her thumb back into her mouth enthusiastically.

Jon knitted his eyebrows together. His expression was hard to read, but she wished he’d stop worrying she’d fall apart.

Dany came back into the room just in time. “Something smells delicious.”

 

 

Dinner would have been a slog if not for Dany. She kept the conversation going with almost aggressive determination. She asked all the right questions and kept the topics both airy and irrelevant - they involved her own work and Jon’s freelance writing. She had a lot to say about King’s Landing, her PR agency. Jon filled in the gaps here and there, but _she_ was master of this exchange. She did not bring up Harry or the divorce and she did not ask Sansa how long she intended to stay. Yet, there was a hunger in her voice that betrayed her. She clearly _wanted_ to ask all these questions, but she was restraining herself. She was playing house admirably. Sansa was grateful, though vaguely uncomfortable.

She set down her fork after several mouthfuls and stared at the tablecloth. “Do you guys have a maid?”

Both Jon and Dany stopped chewing at the same time.

Sansa cleared her throat. “I mean, the house looks so great and everything is so tidy. I imagine you have …help?”

This was the most she had said all evening. Her voice felt slightly unused from the previous periods of silence.

 Dany shifted in her seat uncomfortably, but it was Jon who said, “There’s a woman who comes by twice a week. We rely on her.”

Sansa nodded, gripping the flute of her glass. “Well, I’d be happy to take on her responsibilities from now on. Obviously, without pay.”

They both stared at her bug-eyed. She wondered if she’d grown a second head.

“Sansa, that’s extremely thoughtful of you, but we really don’t need you to do that,” Dany spoke gently, as if afraid of spooking her.

“But I wouldn’t mind.”

“It’s not about that – you’re not here to do housework for us,” Jon said, a little gruffly.

“I understand, but you’d be doing me a favor,” Sansa insisted, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. She remembered her mother used to chide her about that. “I need an activity, at least until I’m back on my feet. I’ll be looking for a job too, but in the meanwhile.”

Dany shook her head. “We can’t accept that, you’re our guest.”

“I really want –” Sansa paused, inhaling sharply, “I _need_ to make myself useful. Please.”

Jon and Dany shared a troubled look.

Jon was thinking that he’d never seen Sansa so much as wash a plate when they all used to live at Winterfell. Then again, she’d never needed to.

As if he’d read her mind, she said, almost casually, staring down at her food, “I’ve learned to be a pretty good house wife these past few years.”

Jon blanched a little at the mention of “house wife”. Dany coughed and stepped around the issue as if it was a stale body of water.

“No one is doubting your skills, Sansa, but we’d rather you didn’t work for us, under any capacity.”

Jon agreed emphatically. “You’re family, for Christ’s sake.”

Sansa pinched the soft skin inside her arm. She pursed her lips. “Then I can’t stay.”

“ _What_?” he asked, louder than intended. “What do you mean?”

“I won’t stay if I can’t be of use.”

Dany could feel scandal brewing in the air. The last thing she wanted was for her husband to start arguing with his troubled sister at the dinner table. She cleared her throat.

“If you feel so strongly about this…perhaps we can reach an arrangement.”

Jon wheeled around with a scandalized expression on his face. “Dany!”

“ _Jon_ ,” she said, staring him down in that particular way that made her seniors at the agency shrink. “Sansa can make her own choices.”

“But –”

“She is right. Thank you, Dany,” Sansa interjected quickly. “I’m sorry, but it’s the only way.”

“Jesus,” Jon muttered, rubbing at his forehead. “I can’t believe this.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, darling,” Dany said, patting his arm. “It’s what Sansa wants.”

“It’s what I _need_ ,” Sansa underlined, pinching the skin of her arm a second time.

Jon did not reply. He sulked moodily for the rest of the dinner. Sansa almost smiled. _That_ was the Jon she remembered.

Dany excused herself towards the end. She grabbed her cigarette pack and went for a smoke in the back yard. Her guilty pleasure, the vice she couldn’t quit. Jon usually made a disapproving noise in the back of his throat, but he remained quiet as he watched her leave. He couldn’t fault her now. He craved a smoke too, if only to relieve his headache.

Sansa was already trying to clear away the plates.

“You don’t have to start _right now_ ,” he said in a muted voice.

 “Jon, please don’t be like this.”

“Like what?” he raised his head to look at her. “I told you, you could stay with me for any amount of time. No strings attached, no obligations. I just want to be there for you.”

“I appreciate that a lot.”

“Weird way you have of showing it.”

“I’m offering to help out. That’s how I show it,” she said rather tetchily.

“No one’s asking you to!”

“Your wife’s right. You’re being dramatic,” she mumbled, moving towards the kitchen.  

Jon followed on her footsteps, carrying the rest of the plates.

“I just don’t understand why –”

She stopped him in his tracks. He almost bumped into her, but managed to salvage the plates.

“No, you _don’t_ understand, and I’d like for you to drop it. Please, Jon.”

Jon clicked his jaw in place. Often times growing up, he had felt that _Sansa_ was the half-sister. She with her auburn Tully looks, with clear blue eyes and bright face. She denied their legacy. But in this moment, her expression was hard as ice. More Stark than Stark.

 He felt as if he had missed a piece of the puzzle. Somewhere along the way, he had lost her.  _You haven’t seen her in four years. You don’t know anything about her._

Sansa sighed and moved towards the sink. She turned on the water.

Jon stood there stupidly, watching her.

“Sansa.”

“I’m okay, Jon. I – I’ll be okay. Thanks for having me.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied with some effort. He felt superfluous, as if he had no set role in this stage play.

Her back was turned to him as she scraped the leftovers into the disposer. Her shoulders relaxed as she started washing the dishes.

Jon noticed with surprise how quick and efficient she was. How scrupulously she scoured the pan and let it soak. And he noticed something else too. Her pretty, dainty hands were no longer so dainty. They had callouses and had developed a thick outer layer. Her wrists were larger too, as if used to handling heavy objects. How had he not seen this? He swallowed thickly. _Who are you?_

Eventually, he made a quiet exit with the intent of finding Dany. They probably needed to talk about all this. She’d no doubt tell him, “I was right, wasn’t I? She’s clearly unstable. And we’re trying to have a _baby_.”

He was suddenly angry recalling how Dany had agreed to Sansa’s ludicrous plans. Why would she do that? He was hoping they wouldn’t fight about this, but he almost _wanted_ to. He craved release. 

 _Jefferson Airplane_ was still playing in the living room.


End file.
